Daughter
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: People are always telling her she has pretty eyes.


Her very first memory is hazy around the edges and particular because she had such small eyes, zeroing in on one perfectly curled piece of her mother's hair.

Fingering the strand, she'd pulled it straight with a gentle tug, and released to allow it to spring back into place. She remembers that she'd giggled again and again, the simple action providing for the best entertainment no money could buy.

A pearly grin had met her tit for tat, her mother's soft hands eventually maneuvering her away from the fixation, encouraging her attention to her own hair, her own springy curls, similar in texture to her mother's but starkly lighter. She recalls being in awe that the hair would go right back into place- just as it was before.

Resilience has always been an admired trait.

/

The women at the preschool she attends are constantly providing the utmost one on one interaction, because Olivia Pope will settle for no less than qualified for her child. Though truly, she loves the place because it always smells of cinnamon and the women who work there have weathered skin like her grandmother and are always rubbing her back or patting her head.

"Such pretty blue eyes," a caretaker chimes to her mother when she's picked up one day, practically clinging to her pant leg upon arrival. She loves her momma, hates being away from her, but somehow comprehends she needs to let her mother have her own space and time.

Her mother just nods, and runs a hand through the petite head of curls.

When her mother straps her into her car seat, she regards her with a look carrying too much seriousness for a little girl of three to have. "Mommy, that woman was wrong."

Olivia frowns. "Why was she wrong?"

"_You_ say I have gorgeous eyes. Not just pretty ones."

/

Bedtime stories are an integral part of her life.

It's the best memories; not enough space in the twin bed, ear pressed against her mother's chest and the lull of a voice to fall asleep too, the soundtrack a rhythmic pulse of heart. If she isn't tired enough she has every ounce of her rapt attention on the tale, and her mother always manages to produce them on the spot. One night, she begs, "Tell me the one about the princess."

Humming, Olivia settles deeper onto the pillow, touching her lips to her daughter's temple. "Once upon a time, there was a princess."

"Was the princess pretty? Did she have a prince?"

Her cheek trembles with the laughter coursing through Liv's chest. "You have to let me tell the story, little one."

She sighs, and mumbles a little.

"She wasn't the prettiest in all the land, but she had pretty words. When she would talk everyone would listen, even if they didn't want to. She met her prince, and they were going to live happily ever after."

Liv's voice becomes fainter. "But the evil sorceress was jealous of the princess, and didn't want her to have love. So, she locked her away in a tower, unable to leave because of a big, mean dragon."

"What was its name?" she interrupts.

Her mother thinks for a moment. A strange smile lights her face.

"Hal. But don't worry, the prince had a horse that could breathe fire too."

A tiny gasp draws from her lips, transforming into a yawn immediately.

"And before you ask," Olivia murmurs, "His name was Tom."

She always falls asleep near the end, just before the prince and the princess are reunited.

/

The first time she knows death is the day of her grandmother's funeral.

Grandma smelled of musky perfume and her jewelry clanged when she walked, she was always wearing jewelry, and it is hard pressed for a four year old to comprehend that the person who has placed a band aid on her knee and helped her make cookies will never laugh again, or tell her 'it'll be alright, sugar plum', but she does.

Somehow, she understands.

So she never lets go of her mother's hand, as if the steady grip will ease the pain of the loss, or possibly anchor to hope. The black dress she wears is itchy, but she doesn't utter a word. Somehow she instinctively recognizes that's not important right now.

It's the first time she sees her mother cry.

There are too many people attempting to hug her and touch her- she wants to tell them to go away, to let Mommy miss Grandma in peace, but she stays very quiet and gives into their comfort in the only way they no.

She still never lets go of her mother's hand.

Peeling bells sound when that clasp tightens, and she can almost feel her mother tense as a man approaches them. He has shiny shoes, and she never forgets that.

Cyrus Beene looks at Olivia Pope for the first time in four years.

The lines around his eyes seem to have increased a tenfold.

"I'm so sorry, Liv."

Those are loaded words.

Tension is palpable between the two for a moment, broken only when he turns his gaze on the small child at her side. Although he can feel his knees strain under the pressure, he kneels to look her in the eye. "You are one beautiful little girl," he states plainly.

She can hear her mother laughing wetly, squeezing her hand.

"What do we say?" Liv prompts.

It's not gorgeous, but something within her reacts in just the same way as if he'd said it right. She drops her head in a bashful manner, and her dimples show.

"Thank you," she whispers, as if it's a secret between friends.

/

"Olivia, his term is almost-

"I know."

"You do plan on telling him he has a -

"No, I do not."

"You know, usually I'm a political monster. I support these kinds of decisions. But Olivia, he is miserable. You love him. You're the love of his life. Dear God, I'd promised myself I wouldn't ever establish that aloud again."

"You're right. You're right, Cyrus. I do. I will always love that man. _But I love her more_."

/

School is the smell of fresh markers and learning to write her name. When she arrives home the third day she recites her ABCs for her mother with a determined glare, and only gets the G and the H mixed up. There is a solid, ebbing flow of emotion in Olivia's chest regardless, and when her daughter finishes she pulls her into a warm hug.

Kindergarten is the best thing that's ever happened to her-

Until Austin Rogers, who sits in the desk catty corner to hers, decides to scribble all over her work. When she tells him, "Quit it," like Mommy told her to, he doesn't

Therefore, things metaphorically go down at recess.

"You're such a baby. It was just a stupid piece of paper," he calls out snidely, and it feels as if every single person in the class laughs. Infuriated, she kicks sand up.

They laugh harder.

"Just because you're the smallest kid in the class doesn't mean you get to be a meanie to me," she fumes.

Austin's face grows a startling shade of red.

"I am not small!" he protests.

Rolling her eyes to pack the punch, she puffs herself up.

"Are too! You're so small you have to use a foot stool to get water out of the fountain. I saw the janitor bring it into the class for you!"

Austin has nothing to say to that.

/

Olivia studies her daughter at the dinner table that night, lips pursed.

"What's wrong?" Liv inquires softly.

Pushing her vegetables around with her fork, she meets her mother's eyes and swallows hard. "Nothing. I'm tired."

In that moment, her daughter looks so much like Fitz.

Olivia lets it go.

/

She isn't expecting Austin to spill the grape juice all over her dress. The dress Mommy had dressed her in. The dress that she really, really liked because when she would spin it made her feel like a princess and then it's covered in purple liquid and ruined and all she can do is-

Scream.

/

The principal's office isn't nearly as cool as it is portrayed in that show on Nickelodeon she watches sometimes. Her mother had walks in not fifteen minutes after she sat down in a hard wood chair in a corner; Austin was put in a room next to the counselor's office.

Weary eyes search, spot, and assess.

Tears are streaking cheeks. The yellow fabric of the dress is marred with a dark stain.

Olivia assesses before she can comfort.

Then her mommy goes into the office with the principal and Austin's angry-looking mommy. She doesn't come out for a long time.

/

They don't say anything about it when they're in the car, but Olivia motions for her daughter to sit down at the dining room table once they are inside the townhome, coats are hung on hooks, and backpacks are put away.

Her mother starts with, "First of all, Austin is going to say sorry to you tomorrow, and he's never going to be mean to you again. However, I did hear about you telling him off at recess. That wasn't right."

"I know. I felt bad about it, but I just wanted him to stop," she says, keeping her eyes trained on her lap.

Liv's tone is steely, and makes her look up. "Listen to me. You should never, ever feel bad for making someone stop being mean to you. And from what I gather, Austin was scribbling on your drawings for no reason but to be mean to you."

"But-

"But he was still going to be mean to you anyway, baby, regardless of what you said."

Never has she felt s small, so helpless.

"Why are people mean?" she cries.

Something in Olivia's chest gnaws and twists, and she leans across the short distance to wrap her arms around the petite body, pulling her to her lap. Her daughter sniffles into her blouse, and in that moment, her heart breaks for her daughter's innocence, for the simplicity of thinking. She hates that one day it will be demolished.

Rubbing soothing circles on her back, Liv hesitates to answer, but still holds firm to the saying that power is truthful.

"I don't know."

The words hang there.

A sigh.

"But I _do _know that I love you. All I want is to keep you safe. And if you had come to me, _I _would have made him stop. I would have helped you. I'll always help you."

/

The following day Austin apologizes to her in front of everyone at snack time, but she doesn't tell him she forgives him because she doesn't.

That afternoon when she gets home she says to her mother simply, "Thank you for fixing it."

Her mother looks like she might smile, but doesn't.

/

The ice of winter melts and new buds populate the Earth.

One night, when the trees are just growing their flowers, her life changes.

She's just finished with her letter homework and the television is a low buzz in the background. Olivia has her glasses perched on her nose, reading a novel on the opposite end of the couch, legs pulled up and glass of wine resting on the coffee table.

The knock at the door resounds louder than silence.

Frowning, she watches her mother close the book and rest there for a moment, can almost see the question that she says aloud. "Who's that, Mommy?"

Olivia cocks her head to the side, and then takes action.

"Can you go to your room for me, and stay there? I'll come tuck you in a little later, okay?"

Eyebrows rising, she nods once, twice, and rises to pad off to the carpeted stairs.

/

"Why are you here?"

"That's it? Six years and that's all you have to say? I can't believe you."

"You can't believe me? Am I hearing this right? A married former president is at my door unannounced, which, I don't care to know how you got my current address-

"I filed for a divorce three weeks ago. Just signed the final papers."

"That doesn't mean anything. I don't want this anymore, I don't!"

"Livy, please."

"Do _not try and kiss me right now."_

"Fine. Just tell me one thing: why did you leave? Why? When you were assisting in campaigning for reelection I thought we had a plan, whether or not it was happening within that next six months, or four years. You said you were on board. You said you weren't walking away again. The last time I saw you, making time to come up to Camp David for the weekend- you seemed fine. I thought we were on the same page-

"Have you ever thought maybe I just got tired of the lies? I didn't enjoy being your dirty little secret, Fitz!"

"No. Because you're Olivia Pope. Liv, I know you. You don't give up just because-

"Maybe I just…stopped loving you."

"Livy…"

"I can't, Fitz. I can't be in love with you anymore. I-

/

She's not very good at listening, and she's too attuned to the man's strong timber to care about the pros and cons of sneaking out to hold at the top of the stairs. She's clumsy still, and at her last doctor's appointment they told Mommy that she'd grow taller soon to account for her long limbs. So she really doesn't mean to redistribute her weight in a way that causes her body to rock forward, the stuffed dog in her arms scrambling away to come tumbling down.

The brown toy makes an obvious entrance into Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III's line of site.

Something on his face shifts abruptly, and Olivia catches it, halting her protests and reasoning in her throat. He's staring off behind her.

She turns, and her heart is suddenly lodged in her throat.

"Fitz," she murmurs huskily.

The reality is blunt and imperfect; she doesn't know what prompts her to move to the foot of the stairs. Her daughter is practically shaking, expression frightened and tedious at the thought of disobeying outright. Liv holds her hand to her mouth, and then gathers the courage to roll her finger in a beckoning motion. "Come here. I'm not mad at you. There's someone I want you to meet."

There are moments in her life that are undefined.

This is one of them.

She's already changed into her pink, Hello Kitty pajamas and the bottoms brush the carpet as she goes down the stairs. The air is wrought with tension, a string pulled tight, but when she finally gets to the bottom and sees the man for the first time, things change.

He doesn't really _look _like a prince, more a king, with the wide face and sturdy palms. He's staring at her funny, like she's got a third eye, which is sort of rude, and if Mommy were going to tell him off that would probably be why. Staring is rude.

"Hi," she mouths.

It's strange, because she's never seen a man cry. But he does.

His eyes well up and turn red, and Mommy's gripping her hand so tight it hurts, but she doesn't want to say anything to upset the situation more.

"Livy," the man groans, in that pained way only animals in cages do.

"Fitz," all but a whisper. Then, "She's-

-I know."

She doesn't understand, until her mother bends to whisper in her ear, and it is then she notices that Mommy is crying too.

"This is Daddy," her mother tells her.

She _definitely_ understands then, grin stretching her cheeks and her stomach warming.

"Really?" she cries out, high pitched and teaming with blithe.

Her mother nods, breathe catching wetly.

She doesn't need to be told twice.

In two seconds flat she's clinging to the man, to her _father, _and he responds by picking her up and holding her just as tightly. His jacket smell of cologne and she buries her face in his neck, giving in to the tears pooling beneath her eyelids. The slide down her cheeks, and she musters the strength to pull away and study him.

"Daddy," she murmurs, the word foreign but unfathomably at home on her tongue. "Promise you won't spend so long on your business trip next time? It felt like years."

/

"I should be angry with you. Hate you, for keeping our daughter from me."

"You have every right."

"But I'm not. I'm just...

"Resentful?"

"Happy. Despite everything, I am _so _happy. We have a daughter. We have a beautiful, brilliant daughter. We have a _daughter."_

"I know."

"Can I kiss you now?"

"Asking permission? That's new."

"Liv."

"Yes. It's always been _yes."_


End file.
